


whatever our souls are made of

by light_loves_the_dark



Series: a better world [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Queen Sansa, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Gen, I'm literally mentally rewriting got here, Platonic Soulmates, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, and abuse', jon is a loveable idiot, my response to 'female characters can only have growth through physical pain, okay I'll stop tagging I'm just excited, petyr totally loves when sansa shuts him down, this is relatively happy, this is so gratuitous, this story is my aesthetic, varys is Done, which is bs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-05 03:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12182205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/light_loves_the_dark/pseuds/light_loves_the_dark
Summary: Jon Snow, newly undead and fearful of the White Walkers, rides south to negotiate a deal with the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.The first story in a series where soulmates have the first words that their other half says to them written somewhere on their body, but it is a rare enough to merely have one that the jealousy of those without words keeps the subject taboo. Sansa Stark has four such marks.This changes everything.





	whatever our souls are made of

**Author's Note:**

> okay, phew. so this story's going to be a little different.
> 
> when you're reading this and are confused bc I didn't fully explain something, it's on purpose! I wanted to try something fun and you guys are my cute guinea pigs. 
> 
> so I am taking PROMPTS for this universe. I've basically outlined this whole thing from start to finish, but I'd never have time to write it all, so instead I want you guys to tell me what you want to read! just a few guidelines
> 
> 1) put prompts in the comments or send them to me on tumblr @queeenpersephone.   
> 2) please keep them relatively vague, like 'petyr gets angry at varys' or 'sansa and petyr talk about x' or 'how did x character die in this verse'. do not send me exact prompts, like 'jon dies' or 'ned comes back from the dead to kill so and so' or any super detailed plot points. I'll just ask you to come up with another!
> 
> anyway I'll also be writing my own things for this verse (slowly and over time) but I hope you guys enjoy this idea! also please be patient bc school is evil.

Jon Snow has seen things beyond the Wall that no one could imagine, but somehow, King’s Landing still manages to surprise him.

The city is cleaner than he would have thought, and much hotter as well. Opulent carriages bump along the cracked roads, right next to small, hungry people in rags with skin long darkened by the sun. Brothels have their ladies peering out into the streets in midday alongside the butcher’s and the blacksmith’s, and yet nothing feels out of place. Most importantly, instead of the lions and stags that have dominated the iron throne for the past years, there is a wolf atop that seat of swords.

His half-sister, to be precise.

Once they have been relieved of weapons, Jon and his men are given passage through the city. People leave their houses just to stare at the pale men in furs. A few of the Wildlings sneer at the gawkers, causing them to scurry away like mice.

Jon feels a slight tugging on his stomach, near where his new soulmark lies, the words of some unlucky soul who is supposed to protect and love him despite his scars. Soulmarks are rare enough in Westeros, successful soulmate pairs even more so, tales gracing the books that Sansa used to read of the lengths to which a soulmate would go for their match. They are meant for the great stories, knights and queens and princes battling for the one they loved. Jon, as an insignificant Northern bastard, had not been surprised to realize that he had been born without one. Despite the lack of words, he had loved Ygritte and Robb and Arya and Sam still, so he had never really felt the loss.

Therefore, he had been quite taken aback to awaken from the dead and find golden words tattooed across his abdomen.

He is quite grateful for the golden coloring. Jon is weary of the romance and angst of love. He thinks that it would be quite nice just to speak to someone who has to care.

From the burning sensation on his skin, he is guessing that this someone must be quite close.

They enter the Keep within the hour; the gold cloak in front of them warns them that the Queen is holding court at the moment, and to keep silent. Turning back to his men, he nods to reaffirm the guard’s warning. Though he wouldn’t suspect it of the Northmen, especially to a Northern queen, the Wildlings are always keen on disrespecting authority. He does not need to lose ground in this bargain before it even begins; for all he knows, his sister is much changed.

They turn a corner, massive double doors appearing ahead of them. A strong, feminine voice echoes through the hall; he hears Sansa before he sees her.

“Yes, milord, you will have the grain you need. In fact, my cousin in the East is looking to trade his excess for quality weaponry, and I know your blacksmiths are the best in the land.” She sounds calm and regal, and Jon has to keep himself from lurching forward, itching to put a new and grown face to the voice that is so unfamiliar to him. “Would that suffice, milord? One of my advisors will draw up a fair contract for you.”

“Yes, your Grace,” the man that she must be addressing replies; Jon can tell from his tone that he is grateful for her fair proposal. Jon can tell from her courteous and reasoned words that Sansa must make a good queen, or so he hopes. “You are most kind.”

At her following dismissal, the knights in front of him move aside, and Jon sees the Throne Room for the first time.

Though his men look around at their surroundings in awe, the great room itself is nothing compared to the sight straight ahead of him.

Sansa Stark’s hair is as Tully-colored as ever, but that is the only feature that Jon truly recognizes. In the place of an awkward, gangly child is a sight that robs him of breath. Sansa is adorned in a dress of grey and white silk, her House’s colors, matching the banners that drape from the windows. She sits straight and proud on the throne with an imposing, yet benevolent demeanor. A crown of white gold and diamonds has been woven into her red locks; she wears no other jewels but a silver mockingbird pin on her breast and a sizable ring of dragonglass shaped as a spider, which decorates her fourth finger. If anyone has ever been born to sit in that chair, Jon thinks in approval, it must be her. 

The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms is flanked by two men, one positioned on either side of her, neither knights but both significant enough to draw Jon’s eye. The first is thin and somewhat short with a small smirk playing at his mouth. He has one hand carelessly wrapped around one of the dull steel swords on the throne, leaning down to speak quietly to Jon’s sister. When he stands, Jon watches as his hand falls from its grip, brushing past Sansa’s long red hair in a movement that seems far more practiced than accidental. 

The other is standing a little farther away, watching the proceedings with a palpable smirk. He is wrapped in opulent robes, standing in a relaxed pose with his hands clasped in front of him. Sansa, to Jon’s surprise, throws the man a small smile after the other steps away, almost apologetic. The man’s smirk morphs into grin, an almost helpless change at the delight of his queen, and he bows his head in her direction.

Sansa looks forward, then, and the two men glance at each other before doing the same. The court does not react at all to the queen’s small break of decorum, which, Jon guesses, means that it must happen quite often.

“If that is all,” Sansa begins, drawing the proceedings to a close.

“I’m sorry, your Grace,” the gold cloak in front of him interrupts, though his tone is reluctant.

Jon finds out why in the next second, for before he can say anything further, the first man speaks: “Ser Rodrick, I would advise you not to interrupt the queen.” His tone is almost blithe, but even Jon can hear the warning between the words.

Despite the tense air, Sansa looks like she would roll her eyes if it would be socially acceptable. “No matter, Lord Baelish,” she chides the man to her right, who to Jon’s surprise seems to enjoy the admonishment. _Baelish,_ Jon mouths, committing the name to memory. “Ser Rodrick, what is-”

The words die on her lips; Sansa has spotted him standing behind the knight, her composed expression morphing into surprise. With her gaze on him, Jon almost feels like the heart of him has detached from his body. His abdomen burns, but he is too distracted to think about what that means. He moves towards her, taking small and steady steps. The room goes silent as he approaches the throne; he barely registers Sansa waving away the guards who move to protect her, caught in the same spell that he is.

Jon opens his mouth to speak, but the lump in his throat swallows anything he might have said.

He has no need for words, however, as Sansa manages to speak first. “You’re alive,” she breathes, holding back tears. “Oh Jon, we had word that you were dead!”

If Jon had not already died, he suspects that the shock would have killed him. Really, should he not have guessed it would be her? The words that are written across his stab wounds erupt into pain, like they are on fire, and it takes all of his strength not to fall to his knees.

By the time that he has composed himself, Sansa has propelled herself out of her throne, flying down the steps into his arms. He barely opens them in enough time to receive her, holding her close, ignoring the gasps of the court around them. He closes his eyes, lifting her off of the ground, swaying almost without realizing from side to side. She is safe, he tells himself. He is safe. They are together. His sister.

His _soulmate._

Jon takes a deep breath, inhaling the aroma of lemons in her hair. He knows that his next words matter, more than anything.

“Of course I couldn’t die,” he says carefully, and she pulls back to stare at him in complete and utter astonishment. “I had to come and find you, didn’t I?”

Sansa just looks at him, unblinking, gripping his hands so tight that it hurts a little. “ _You_ -” she breathes, before glancing around at the crowds that surround them and shaking her head. “It is good to see you whole and hale, brother,” she says instead, discarding whatever she intended to say before she came back to herself.

Jon furrows his brow in confusion. Is she rejecting him? “Sansa?” He enunciates each syllable like he is underwater. Something inside of him aches.  

“Join me for a walk?” She invites, ignoring the pained expression on his face. She winds her arm through his. “We have much to discuss.”

She shoots a heavy look to the men flanking her throne. Somehow, both understand what Jon does not and nod in unison. “The Queen will continue hearing your grievances tomorrow,” the bald one declares. “All urgent requests can be delivered to her council.”

The man continues to speak, but Sansa has already pulled him through several corridors and out into the bright sunlight. “My men will have your men settled into rooms,” she begins, breaking the silence.

Jon has never been one for pretty words and conversation. He wants the truth. “Sansa,” he tells her. “I have your words. Please tell me that you have mine.”

Sansa stops walking, turning to look straight into his eyes. “I do, Jon,” she replies, quiet but clear. “On my leg.”

He lights up with joy, reaching for her again, but she steps away. “They’re gold, Jon.” She looks down at the gravel beneath them, waiting for his reaction.

His eyes go wide, then a smile breaks out on his face. “Oh, so that’s what has you worried? Sansa, you’re my little sister. I’m never going to let any harm come to you, soulmate or not, but that doesn’t mean I want to kiss you.” He winces. “Or think of it. Ever. Mine are gold too,” he clarifies.

Sansa’s shoulders drop and she exhales in relief. “Oh thank the gods.” He holds out his arm to her, and she wraps her own around his, pressing close to him. Jon cannot help but feel like something has slid into place; even if it was possible to wish harm on one’s soulmate, he knows that he will protect this girl with his life. “I’m curious,” she continues, “how is it that the words are from this moment and never when we were growing up?”

He has no idea how to tell her the truth, and settles for being blunt. “I died; the raven you got was the truth,” he says simply, waiting for the obvious follow-up questions. It is not long before she begins to interrogate him. More words leave his lips than have in years.

They circle the gardens for hours, speaking about their paths in life and Sansa’s plans as queen. Jon wonders if he will be expected to bend the knee, and tries not to think about the lack of grief that the thought gives him.

The sun is near setting when they finally reach the topic which concerns Jon the most. “Why did you come here at all?” Sansa questions, before her tone becomes teasing. “Unless you guessed that I was your soulmate?”

He turns grim, leading her to a nearby bench and gesturing for her to sit. He takes a seat next to her, and they watch the sun melt over the horizon for a moment before he replies. “We’re facing a threat beyond the wall,” he tells her, and Sansa’s eyes flash to his, worried. “A big one. We need men.”

“A threat?” She looks confused, and he doesn’t blame her. “But you told me that you made peace with the Wildlings.”

Jon shakes his head. “Not the Wildlings.” He tries to find the right words. The wrong ones might scare her off, as they have done so many others. “It’s going to be hard to believe, but I’ve seen them, Sansa.”

“Seen what?”

He swallows. The truth always sticks in his throat a little, as horrible as it is. “The dead. The undead. They’re coming for everyone, and then all the politics in the world won’t matter.” He stares straight into her eyes, trying to impart the truth of his claim.

Sansa takes a deep breath, meeting his gaze with no hesitation. “I expect that I’ll need to hear more, Jon, but I believe you.”

“You do?”

Sansa smiles at him. “It’s hard to lie to me now. King’s Landing is a bottomless pit of the best liars and cheaters, and I’ve turned out most of them.” She giggles then. “Of course, it helps that you’re an uncommonly dreadful liar.”

Jon laughs aloud, and he can’t remember the last time he heard his own laughter. “Very funny,” he deadpans, and she grins before turning solemn.

“I will consult my advisors this evening, but I am certain that we will get you the aid that you need.” She stands, brushes her skirt down. As if on command, a handmaiden separates herself from the shadows, bowing low to the queen. Jon wonders fleetingly how long it took for his sister to get used to that.

“The men that stood behind you?” He clarifies. Neither are the type of men to which he is accustomed. Both are clear politicians and men meant for books and conversation, not fighting.

“Yes, Jon,” she replies, leaning down for the girl to whisper something in her ear. Sansa nods, and the girl scurries off with another deep bow.

“And you trust them?”

Sansa looks straight at him with no hesitation. “With my life,” she promises, a glint of something he cannot recognize in her eyes. Still, she sounds so serious and sure that he wants to believe her on words alone.

Jon nods once. Sansa is a woman grown and a queen now, but he will not apologize for worrying about his soulmate. “I just want to be sure you’re safe.”

Sansa smiles at him, laying a soft hand on his cheek. “And I appreciate that, brother.” A beat passes before she continues. “I must take my leave of you; the small council meets soon. Tomorrow, bring your concerns to the throne room in the late hours of the morning, and we will lunch together after.”

She moves the hand on his cheek to his shoulder, squeezing softly before leaving Jon to watch her leave, the sun setting behind them.

 

-

 

“-men, to man the wall.”

Jon pauses on his journey through the maze that is the Red Keep to find his rooms, sidling up to the door at the sound of Sansa’s voice. These must be the queen’s apartments. He pushes away his guilt at listening in on her conversations. After all, the White Walkers are the true enemy. He deserves to know what opposition Sansa’s advisors might pose.

“And you trust this boy, Sansa?” Jon recognizes the voice of the bald man.

Sansa huffs in annoyance, and Jon smiles a little, agreeing with her sentiment. “I grew up with Jon; I trust him. He is honorable, Varys. He wouldn’t make something like this up.”

“Wonderful,” the other man – Baelish – snipes. “We have another Ned Stark on our hands.”

Sansa’s retort is sharp. “Let me remind you that you did nothing to protect my father, Petyr, and I’ll thank you not to speak ill of him in my presence.”

“I am sorry, my love,” Baelish replies, and though he does actually sound repentant, all Jon can hear is ‘ _my love’._ Who is this man? “But we need more information,” he continues. “The Maesters declared your half-brother dead. The letter was clear. Can you be certain that this boy is Jon Snow?”

“Yes,” Sansa answers, her voice filled with the same absolute confidence that she had given her advisors when Jon had questioned them earlier.

There is a long pause, then: “there is something that you’re not telling us, my love. Care to elaborate?”

Sansa’s sigh is audible, even from outside the room. “Sometimes I question the intelligence in having advisors who know me so well,” she murmurs. “No, not tonight, Petyr. You will both learn the truth soon, but not before I have time to process it.” 

“There is no peril your secrets pose to the realm, I expect,” says the man that Jon now knows as Varys.

“Of course not,” Sansa denies with an affronted tone. “You must know by now that I wouldn’t put the people in danger merely for my comfort. It is only personal, and all you need to know is that you can trust Jon.”

Jon hears nothing for a beat, where he imagines that Sansa is staring her advisors down into submission. _That_ is a trait she has had since childhood.

“Very well,” Varys replies finally. “I trust your judgment in this matter, my queen."                                             

Sansa chuckles. “I know you will still have your birds gather any information they can, Varys, and you should.”

“Goodnight, Sansa, Baelish,” the man says. Steps echo towards Jon and he hurriedly makes his way down the corridor. He does not breathe until he is back in the guest wing, grateful that he has somehow found his way.

When he arrives, Davos is waiting for him. He stands when Jon walks into the room.

“I thought a short word might be necessary,” Davos tells him. Jon gestures for him to continue speaking. “I know not what has passed since I sailed away from King’s Landing, but the Petyr Baelish I remember is not to be trusted.”

Jon tilts his head. “The queen told me that she would trust him with her life.”

Davos sighs. “Perhaps he has changed, but Littlefinger – that is what they used to call him, you know – is a master manipulator. For that matter, so is Lord Varys. They seem to be guiding the queen quite well, but it would behoove you to keep a wary eye on them both.” With that, Davos bows his head before taking his leave.

Jon settles into a chair rather than a bed; he knows that he will be incapable of sleep with the multitude of thoughts running through his mind.

 

-

 

On the second day of his arrival in the capital, Jon kneels before the queen and asks for aid. Eyes glittering with something that he cannot name, she glances over to her advisors before granting his request. The Northmen do not hide their sighs of relief.

After the remainder of the matters have been seen to, Sansa takes Jon by the arm and leads him to a pavilion surrounded by bright flowers. There is a large table in the center, overflowing with delicacies that Jon has never seen before in his life. He hesitates for a moment, then reaches for the meat, praying that it is recognizable.

Chicken. Thank the gods.

Sansa’s two advisors and Ser Davos have followed them, and once Sansa has settled, they take seats around the table. Lord Baelish sits particularly close to his queen, and though Jon narrows his eyes, he says nothing. As if he can see Jon’s thoughts, the man in question smirks at him before filling both Sansa’s and his plates.

Sansa speaks first. “I apologize for not introducing my advisors earlier, my lords. This is Lord Baelish and Lord Varys.” Sansa gestures to each as she speaks. “They are my Hands.”

Davos leans forward. “I must say, it is unusual to have more than one Hand, your Grace.”

“Is that so?” Sansa replies, a smile spreading across her face. Her eyes twinkle a little as she continues. “I was so sure that it was customary to have two.”

The men give her quip a few moments of laughter. “In earnest, Ser Davos,” Sansa says when they are quiet, “they are both essential to a healthy kingdom, as they are my most loyal advisors.”

Davos nods thoughtfully, but he looks disbelieving. Jon remembers the warning that he had received the night before about these men, Littlefinger in particular.

“It must have been quite something,” Jon interjects, nodding to the three of them, “to take over an entire kingdom with so little support. How did you manage it?”

It is Varys who speaks. “The crown was in deep debt, and the Lannister family was weak with only Cersei to guide its clumsy steps. Joffrey was a violent and selfish king; he was disliked by both the nobility and the common folk.” He waits a beat, allowing the situation to sink in. “And the Starks have far more friends than you might think.”

Sansa shoots Varys a wry glance. “He makes it sound so conceptual, does he not? We had the support of the North, the Riverlands through Mother, the Vale through Lord Baelish, and the Reach. Dorne eagerly accepted my claim after the brutality committed by the Lannisters to the Martells. There are few left to pose any resistance.”

Davos nods, and Jon can tell that it is one of approval. They both have always preferred candor over flowery language, and Sansa delivers it easily. “Very good, your Grace,” Ser Davos says, before turning to Jon with a teasing grin. “Is it too late to change my allegiances, then?”

Jon refuses to chuckle, staring straight at his sister. “We are on the same side,” he replies, and though it was Davos who spoke, it is Sansa who Jon addresses. “The North is under the control of Starks, with Rickon in the seat at Winterfell and my sister on the Iron Throne. As long as that remains the case, there need be no King in the North. I never wanted the title anyways.”

Instead of the smile that he expects, Sansa purses her lips. “I would be prepared for change, my lord, in the end. After all, we have not yet counted all the pieces.”

“Yes, the White Walkers,” Jon says, missing the sharp looks that Baelish and Varys give his sister. There is something else afoot, but he needs no part in it. There is a fight coming that is beyond court politics. “We should talk strategy.”

“Of course,” Sansa acquiesces, waving for the food to be taken away. Baelish is still staring at Sansa with a curious expression, but when she turns to him, he is quick to retrieve his papers and ink. “Now, as to the amount of men you might need-”

 

-

 

That evening, Jon knocks on the door to his sister’s rooms. He has thought long and hard about bringing up the subject of Sansa’s advisors, and deciding that he cannot let it go. They are familiar where everyone else at the court must be formal, Baelish especially. Sansa is a kind ruler, but distant. She keeps to herself and her council, passing judgment when she sees fit but staying out of the social politics of court. She allows her more gregarious counterparts to reach out, and though it seems a satisfactory arrangement, Jon will not abide the use of his sister and soulmate as a puppet.

But then, she seems in remarkable control in her advisors. They rarely speak out of turn, supporting and critiquing her idea in equal measurement, and both with respect.

Simply, Jon is confused.

A pretty, dark haired girl opens the door, staring at him with wide eyes.

“Who is it?” Sansa calls from within the room.

“Your brother, your Grace,” the girl answers.

“Well, let him in then,” Sansa says, voice amused, as if she already knows the precise reason that he came. “And you can go, Myriah. Thank you.”

The girl opens the door wider, revealing his sister. She has stood from her desk, coming around the corner to greet him. Myriah bows to her before scurrying from the room, shutting the door behind her.

“Myriah is from one of the minor families in Dorne. She is one of the many sent to King’s Landing to curry good favor.” She sighs, reaching up to greet him with a kiss on the cheek. “Of course, it is most likely part of a plot to spy on me. Nothing is ever what it seems in this cursed city.” She takes him by the hand, pulling him to the settee. “Come, sit, and tell me why you came.”

Jon sits with her, but his body is tense. How should he bring up doubts about men that Sansa has trusted much longer than him? He decides to be blunt, turning and holding his sister’s gaze.

“I want to talk to you about Lord Baelish.”

Instead of the anger or displeasure that he expects, Sansa only sighs. “I suspect Lord Davos told you that he wasn’t to be trusted?”

Jon feels confused. “Yes, how did you-”

Sansa interrupts him, standing. “Please, let me speak. I need to explain something to you, and I’m not sure how.” She paces slowly, back and forth, and Jon tries to keep silent.

After a few minutes of this, Sansa turns to him. “Petyr is not a good man, Jon. He isn’t honorable, and truly, neither is Varys. They have both done unspeakable things to put me on this throne.” Jon tries to speak, but Sansa continues. “Varys, I think, has done things for me, but also for the realm. For the people. Petyr…” she trails off, wrapping her arms around her stomach in an uncharacteristic sign of distress. “Before he met me, I think Petyr would’ve burned this kingdom to ashes for its perceived slights against him.”

Jon couldn’t take it anymore. “And you think you’ve changed him, Sansa, is that it? Men like that-”

“Do you remember when I was born?” She asks, ignoring his frantic attempts to speak.

“Of course, but I don’t see how-”

Sansa sits down on the chaise, heavy with something he cannot describe, and it shuts him up more than her words ever could. “Mother said she never let anyone see me,” she remembers wistfully. “It was too important that I keep them hidden. One was unusual enough, but four…”

Jon thinks he knows what she is saying, but he cannot believe it. “Sansa,” he says, voice low and serious.

She looks at him in earnest. “You wouldn’t believe me until I showed you,” she tells him, rolling up her sleeve. Golden letters peek out, but not the ones he had said to her only days ago. “Varys’ words,” she says softly.

Jon’s eyes are wide as he stares at his sister. “Sansa, how-?”

She shakes her head, taking his hand and resting it on her clothed stomach. “Petyr’s are here.” Her voice is hardly audible. “In red.”

Jon swallows. This moment almost feels unreal. His sister and soulmate is queen, which is enough for the songs, but he cannot imagine the ballads that would be written for her if they knew the truth. “And mine?”

Finally, a small smile breaks out on her face, and she bends down to pull up the skirt of her dress. “Here,” she says, exposing the creamy skin of her leg. “It wraps around the muscle. I usually cover it with some salve that mother showed me when I was young, but I figured you’d come looking for it soon. And yours?”

Jon cannot take his eyes from her leg, but he still manages to pull his shirt off. Sansa’s fingers trace her own words, carefully avoiding his scars. When she looks up, there is sadness in her eyes.

“Don’t,” he says, guessing what she is about to say. “Don’t be sorry; it couldn’t have been your fault, in any way.”

Sansa lets her dress fall, shifting to her knees to lean over him and press a kiss to his forehead. “You have been through so much pain and betrayal. Whether it is my fault or not, I am still sorry.”

Something washes over Jon. Maybe it is peace or forgiveness, but it is something that he has not felt for a long while. “So have you,” he urges, trying to give back to her what she has given to him. “You’ve done Father and your Mother proud.”

Sansa squeezes his shoulder, letting herself shift back onto the cushions. Jon shrugs his shirt back on; even though Sansa is his soulmate, he still feels awkward as hell half-naked in front of her.

“Do you see now why I trust Petyr and Varys? I feel with them what I just felt with you, no matter what the circumstances of our relationships are. They have their own ambitions, true, but I know they are quite satisfied with me at present.”

_Satisfied._ “Speaking of which,” Jon says, going for a casual tone and most likely failing, “do I need to have a talk with Baelish?”

Sansa coughs at his words, but it sounds like laughter. “No, Jon, thank you. I’m afraid you’re a little late.”

Jon shrugs. “Never too late to threaten your sister’s… whatever he is.”

Sansa rolls her eyes, standing from the couch. “Okay, brother, that’s quite enough. You’ve gotten your answers; I think it’s time for you to go.”

Jon wants to protest, but Sansa does look a little tired. He supposes having three soulmates in one castle would do that to a person. He stands, and a thought comes to him. “You said four,” he says suddenly. “Four soulmates. Do you know who the last one is?”

Sansa shakes her head. “No, Jon, I haven’t met them.” Her voice is a little hollow, and Jon wonders at the truth of that statement. Then, she smiles. “However, I’m quite pleased with my lot so far.”  

Jon doesn’t push; he merely kisses her forehead lightly before making for the door. “Me too,” he tells her before he leaves. “Good night, Sansa.”

He shuts her door behind him, walking towards his rooms. That conversation had certainly not been what he had expected, but he does feel better about the Hands of the Queen.

That doesn’t mean he won’t threaten Baelish within an inch of his life tomorrow. Soulmate or not, Sansa is his sister. To the Starks, family comes first.

 

-

 

Sansa watches her half-brother leave, not flinching when strong, familiar arms wrap around her waist from behind. Instead, she tilts her head to the left, letting the man standing behind her rest his chin on her shoulder.

“You are accumulating quite the number of men who would die for you, my queen,” her lover observes, mouth pressed against the nape of her neck. Sansa merely hums, relaxing against his chest. “Is his mark the one on your back or your calf?”

Sansa sighs, closing her eyes against his continued ministrations. “I should have known that I couldn’t keep it from you for long,” she admits. “My calf, if you must know.”

Petyr spins her around, dropping to his knees. He rucks up her skirt and Sansa lets him, watching him uncover Jon’s mark with a bemused expression on her face. He exhales when he sees the words, a heavy and grave thing, gazing at her leg with such a possessive expression that it wipes the smile off her face.

“I don’t like seeing anyone’s hands on you but mine,” he says, low and growling. She remembers the way that Jon had kissed her forehead before taking his leave, wondering when Petyr had slipped into the room. He grazes his fingers down the muscle in her calf, and she shudders. “Anyone’s mark on you but mine.”

Sansa kneels as well then, cupping his face in her hands and dragging his eyes from the words written across her skin. “We’ve been through this with Varys, my love. It’s gold. Every other word on my body is gold. Yours is the only red; beyond holding hands and gentle hugs, your touch is the only one for which I long.”

Petyr’s eyes go dark at her words, and he reaches for her bodice, fingers catching in laces at his urgency. Sansa feels the same, unhooking his mockingbird pin and pulling apart his robe until she is able to see the red on his scarred chest. Written over his heart. 

When she is all but bare to him from the waist up, he buries his face in her stomach, nipping and kissing. As she lays back on the rug, he traces the letters of his words with his tongue. Her eyes close in bliss, murmuring his name. After he traces the final ‘y’, Petyr looks up from his perch, resting his chin on her hipbone. With all the secrets they keep from the masses, quiet moments like these are blessings. For a moment, they can only stare at each other.  
  
“I love you,” she tells him softly, scratching her fingers through the grey in his hair. It has grown more prominent over the years, but she thinks that it only makes him look more refined. “No matter who arrives at my castle doors, that will never change.”

Petyr presses a kiss to her hip before moving up to lay his cheek against her stomach. “I know, my love.” His voice sounds sure, but melancholy. She wonders if this arrangement feels as temporary to him as it does to her.

She continues to run a hand through his hair. “And?” She probes, hoping her cheeky tone will pull him from wherever dark place his thoughts have taken him.

It works; a smirk spreads across his face. He sits up so that he is looking down at her, his signature expression still firmly in place. “ _And_? Oh, you want to hear more, do you?”

Sansa looks up at him, eyes sparkling. “I wouldn’t mind…”

“Sometimes making love to you isn’t adequate,” he admits as he regards her with a thoughtful look in his eyes. “Magnificent as it is, I begin to contemplate what it would be like if we could truly become one, the way the gods so evidently intended.” He brushes the words on her stomach with his fingertips, smirking when she gasps at the sensation. The mark is still so sensitive after all these years, but only under his touch. “Why give us these words if we cannot know one another in all ways? I want to know your every thought, Sansa Stark. Your every whim. You are the only thing that can satisfy me, but still I doubt that it will ever be enough. I will always crave more of you."                                                  

Sansa can hardly see him through the tears that blur her eyes. “Oh Petyr…”

“So you see, my dear? It is not enough to say that I love you. I desire you beyond all else. You would have to pry me away from your side, even if you yourself were the one to tell me to leave.”

Sansa tries to contain the wealth of emotion pouring from her, knowing that though Petyr Baelish is her soulmate, it would not do to lose her wits completely around him. So instead of throwing herself into his arms the way she wants, she pushes herself up onto her elbows, staring at him from underneath her eyelashes. “I thank you for your kind words, my lord. And though lovemaking does not truly satisfy you, do you think, Lord Baelish, you would still deign to take me to bed?” 

His eyes are smoldering as he hooks his hands around her waist and underneath her knees, lifting her into his arms. “It would be my honor and pleasure, my queen,” he agrees without hesitation, taking her lips with his as he carries her into their bedchamber.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! remember to prompt something, if you'd like <3


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